The Tug Of War
by La Marelle
Summary: All over Europe, those that put their faith in the Allied Forces wished those men well. Men charged their glasses to them, women prayed for them, and children played games, taking turns pretending to be their Captain. The man that was only ever known as Europe's Greatest Hope. AU set during the Second World War.
1. Prologue: The World At War

Welcome, everyone. This is just the fruition of an idea that popped into my head and I wasn't able to rid myself off, so I wrote it down. Hence it's manifested into something that I don't even know how to manage. I hope you enjoy it. It's tragic how much I love history.

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own Attack On Titan/Shingeki No Kyojin/進撃の巨人 or any of its related characters. Rated M for future violence, graphic scenes and, I'm sure, plenty of swearing. It's set heavily within the Second World War and will about many of the unfortunate events that happened. If you're sensitive to the issue, then this may not be the fic for you.

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**The Tug Of War**

**By La Marelle**

**Prologue:  
The World At War**

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May 1941.

The world had been at war with one another for one year and nine months so far. Twenty-one months of bombs dropping, tanks crushing and soldiers dying. Twenty-one months of nations' leaders puffing their chests in one another's direction and yelling things in languages that the other would never be able to decipher. Each had their own leaders, just as pompous and eccentric as the other, no matter what side of the battle they were on. Italy followed their benevolent leader of the Fascist Party, Benito Mussolini; France had the Great Collaborator, General Philippe Pétain; Great Britain had Prime Minister Winston Churchill; Newly appointed Joseph Stalin lead the terrifying Red Army of Russia; Even Japan had began to shake foundations in the Pacific with Emperor Hirohito.

The most dangerous of them all though, was the _Führer_ of Germany, Adolf Hitler.

His name alone caused many to cringe in fear.

His guttural speeches were broadcast on the newsreels and over the radios for the whole world to hear. The harsh, raucous tones of the German language making his threats seem so much more terrifying than they already were. Having already conquered Austria, his army of Nazi Soldiers marched on France like they were going for a leisurely Sunday stroll. Photos were being published in newspapers all over Europe of Hitler standing dominantly in front of the famed Eiffel Tower. Footage of him was shown on the news, smiling as he inspected his immaculate troops marching down the _Champs Elysée_ with deadly precision. It was like a bruise on the immaculate flesh of the fallen country. And yet, his power seemed to be spreading dangerously across Europe like some horrid, untreatable rash. Countries appeared to have lost the will to fight, and let the invading Army march through their borders without so much as a cry of protest, through no one blamed them. Everyone knew: protest just caused more unnecessary death.

The impossible power of the _Third Reich_ seemed unbreakable. No country was safe from their dominance.

Air raids were almost becoming a nightly occurrence in England alone. All power would go out across cities, as the _Luftwaffe_ glided smoothly through the sky. Normally bustling streets became still as people took shelter underground. A whistling could be heard high above the rooftops, and in seconds, a five hundred year old church could be reduced to rubble, like it was a bug beneath ones shoe. Those seeking shelter inside rarely made it out alive. It wasn't just in Great Britain that this was happening, either; the attacks were becoming more widely spread. There were reports coming in that even places as far off as Australia were being attacked on their north shores. Though none come out and said it, many people thought the same thing: if somewhere as remote as Australia was under threat, what hope was there for the rest of them?

The headlines varied.

"_V FOR VICTORY_" some screamed, showing images of a plump Winston Churchill, holding up his index and middle finger into a V-shape. Others printed dismaying lists of Baltic States that had recently joined the Axis and Hitler's cause. Occasionally one would report of horrific labour camps that Jews were being forced into, though no one wanted to believe such a thing. Some showed pictures of the latest bombsites; others showed photos of Nazi soldiers parachuting into countries about to be invaded. One newspaper famously printed two images, side-by-side, of Winston Churchill and his V for Victory, and one of Adolf Hitler, his right arm raised in a straight line, his hand out flat, with his palm facing down, in the Nazi Salute. "Scissors Beats Paper" the headline read. Though witty, uplifting headlines such as this were scarce. People were too scared of the situation to make light of it.

Many people forgot what optimism felt like.

That was until they heard the rumours. They were stories that were never printed or broadcast, but rather spread by word of mouth. The mystery that shrouded them made them all the more appealing. There was a team, some said, of elite soldiers from all over Europe, who were hiding in neutral Switzerland. Their sole goal was to infiltrate, undermine and destroy invading powers in the annexing Nazi-Occupied countries. News reports would tell of an intercepted boat that had been sneaking down the Rhône River to deliver new military supplies to France. There was never a mention of who intercepted it, of whom the brave soldiers were that risked their lives boarding the ship. Simply that it happened. Everyone knew it was them, though. Even the _Führer _himself knew it was them – the great thorns in his side. A price was placed on their heads at his command; 100,000 German _Reichsmarks_ for each of them, 500,000 _Reichsmarks _for their leader.

All over Europe those that put their faith in the allied forces wished those men well. They boosted their moral and made them feel like, perhaps, there was hope that the war could come to a favourable end. Perhaps, sooner rather than later, and their husbands, sons, brothers and lovers could come home safely. Even if they didn't exist, the rumours gave them hope. And so, the men charged their glasses to them, women prayed for them, and children played games, taking turns pretending to be their brave Captain.

The man that was only ever known as Europe's Greatest Hope.

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_**A/N:**_ Thanks for getting this far, guys! This is a little project I'm giving myself to work on in the four months I have off before I go back to Uni. I've studied the War quite a bit at Uni too, so I plan on sticking as accurately as I can to the actual historical events. That being said, I may take some 'artistic' liberties every now and then to make it easier on myself. I know this is a really sensitive topic for some still, so I plan on handling it as delicately as possible, don't worry.

I currently have just a loose plot for this, but I'm working to refine it. I have, roughly, the next 10 chapters planned, and I still don't really know where I'm going with it. So I'll be here for a while. If you're interested, check out my tumblr. I plan on posting updates on there.

**Glossary:  
**_Führer_ - Leader, Title adopted by Adolf Hitler  
_Third Reich_ - Name referring to Nazi Germany  
_Luftwaffe_ - The aerial warfare branch of the German Army  
The Axis - Term used to refer to the countries on Germany's side in the war. Opposite of the Allies  
_Reichsmarks_ - The currency used in Germany at the time


	2. The Nurse

**The Tug Of War**

**Chapter 1**  
**The Nurse**

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Her dainty finger threaded through the loop-shaped handle of the teacup and she ignored the slight burn that the hot china caused when it came into contact with her knuckle. She was going to enjoy this cup of tea if it was the absolutely last thing she did. After the shocking morning that she'd had, she deserved as much. They all did. Around her in the small dinning hall were close to twenty other nurses, all of them relishing in the short half hour break that they were permitted. Anyone that saw them all sitting there despondently would be shocked; the scene was eerily reminiscent of a stack of playing cards painting the white roses red in the name of the Red Queen. Gone were their crisply starched white aprons and matching dresses, their smart white hats were abandoned and the state of their hair had been dismissed as the least of their worries. They all appeared wilted and exhausted. Each nurse was accessorised with identical red capes as well as their own, individual red smears.

Some women were at sinks, scrubbing at their hands frantically, trying to remove the stains that may wash away but would never truly leave them; others had resigned themselves, leaving the red liquid where it marred their once pristine uniforms. She often wondered why they even bothered making their uniforms white. They never even lasted the morning, and blood was incredibly hard to get out of white fabric.

She was Petra Marie Ral, a ward sister at St Bartholomew's Hospital in Smithfield, London. Yet having been there only a number of weeks, Petra was still trying to get used to it. It had only been two weeks since she'd been restationed there, and it was yet to feel like home to her. Her previous hospital, St James', had been all but destroyed in an air raid the previous month while she had been working the night shift. The shrill ringing of the sirens caused chills to run up her spin as she recalled it. The moment they'd gone off, echoing through the sterile hallways, Petra had been placed in charge of transporting all of the infants from the post-natal ward down into the bunker in the basement. She had just finished bringing the last screaming and terrified child down when the incendiary bombs hit. She had been lucky. Others weren't so.

The moment war broke out Petra had enlisted herself in the Royal Nursing Services, much to her elderly father's chagrin. It hadn't been her first career choice. She'd gone through her teen years aspiring to be a schoolteacher. She wanted to educate children on the languages of the world, but the pursuit of the German language had, understandably, become an undesirable aspiration in the recent political climate. So instead, she'd gone to London and put her name down at the first hospital she'd come across. Her father had been heartbroken at her decision, and it pained her to have to leave him alone, but nothing could change her mind on the matter. She would follow in her mother's footsteps. She would become a nurse and she would help the soldiers who were so willingly giving their own lives to help her and others like her live as peaceful a life as they could.

If she happened to die in the fields doing her duty, just like her mother two years earlier, then so be it. She would have done her part to help humanity. She just hoped it wouldn't come to that.

As she raised her teacup up to her lips, she took a deep breath, inhaling the steam rising from the hot liquid and appreciating the soothing scent of the black tea that made her think so much of home. Taking a sip, Petra relaxed, allowing the scalding hot liquid run down her throat and warm her from the inside out. She'd always enjoyed her drinks incredibly hot. Some of the other nurses chastised her, saying that it caused oesophageal cancer, but Petra pacified them with the reminder that they were in the middle of a war, and so few things made her happy, so if she wanted to drink blisteringly hot beverages, then she was damn well going to.

They had to hold onto the small things in life. It was all that kept them going throughout the day, and in doing so, it allowed Petra to remain positive about her circumstances. The girls that she lived with in a small flat, a five minute walk from the hospital, struggled to fathom how she always managed to keep a smile on her face, even in the bleakest of times. It simply came as second nature to her, though. She'd seen first hand what happened if you let the darkness of the world consume you. It surrounded you like a thick, early morning mist; it oozed into your lungs as you breathed it in, and it sat there, constricting you. It squeezed its hold on you tighter and tighter until you couldn't breath anymore, until you begged it to completely consume you, to put an end to the torture. Petra had been in that place, and she was in no rush to return there.

So instead she'd resolved to stay positive and to see the silver lining in every grey cloud. It was the only way she could keep her head above water in such a state of war. She would show compassion to every living thing, but she would never let her emotions get the better of her again. She greeted every day with a smile and helped everyone to the best of her ability. That was all that could be asked of her, after all. Even if it wasn't always enough. When you're in the midst of a world war, nothing is ever quite enough.

Petra placed her teacup back down onto its saucer with a little clatter, and her eyes wandered over her hands. They trembled. What once had been young and smooth had been transformed into rough, calloused surfaces. The constant need to scrub her hands in disinfectant and boiling water had taken away their youthful appearance. Currently, there was still blood caked under her nails from that morning. As to whose it was, she couldn't say. It could have belonged to any number of people. It could have belonged to the young boy that had been crying for his mother, whose cut forehead she'd stitched up. Or it could have belonged to the man, no older than herself, whom she'd helped transfer from the stretcher to his bed, his missing leg oozing the warm, red liquid from his life. Or perhaps it belonged to the woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, who lay limp on the bed, covered from head to toe in blood that couldn't be her own, due to her lack of wounds. Petra had pounded on the woman's chest for ten minutes, trying to shock her heart into starting again. It never would.

There had been another bombing. This time in London's West End, destroying a cinema that had been showing newsreels and updates of the war. Most of the people that had been inside hadn't survived.

It never got any easier.

And so the nurses sat, many starring at something directly in front of them, but none of them actually seeing anything. Some wept openly into the hands, their friends wrapping an arm around them consolingly, but it was all in vain. Every part of the godforsaken war was in vain, and every woman in the hospital knew it. What could ever warrant such mindless murder of innocent people? In Petra's mind, there was absolutely nothing, and it made her blood boil that _one man_ alone, could control such destruction, like they were just puppets, dangling from his maniacal fingers, forced into his perverted little plan for world domination.

Petra looked up from her hands as she noticed a figure approaching her out of the corner of her eye. She smiled as she recognised the only woman she'd found herself getting particularly close to at the new hospital. Petra was well liked wherever she went in life, her warm, nurturing personality made it almost impossible for her to not make friends, and so Petra got along with just fine with all the nurses as St Bartholomew's Hospital, but none aside from Peggy would she say that she was good friends with.

"Hello, Petra" Peggy said in greeting, though Petra noticed she seemed just as crestfallen as all of the other nurses.

"Dear Peggy! Come! Sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea. Heavens knows you'll need one after this morning." She said as cheerfully as she could. She reached for a clean teacup and saucer, into which she poured tea from the teapot she'd brewed earlier, adding two lumps of sugar and a dash of milk, just the way she knew Peggy enjoyed it.

"You're an angel, Petra," Peggy said, her voice a mix of gratitude and relief. Slumping down into the chair next to Petra, she accepted the proffered teacup. "No one makes a cup of tea like you do."

Petra smiled at the girl. Peggy Williams was a sweet girl. She was taller than Petra by a couple of inches, but quite plump, and her nurse's apron strained around her larger waist where it was tied. She had been nursing for two years longer than Petra had; yet many noted that she lacked the skills that Petra possessed. It wasn't for a lack of trying, though. Peggy's heart was always in the right place, she just always seemed to get flustered, and the pressure very often got too much for her. Petra had only known her two weeks, but had already found her crying in a bathroom stall numerous times, when the situation simply got too much for her.

"Have you only just finished up?" Petra inquired, tilting her head slightly in questioning.

"Yeah." Peggy said with a sigh and raised the teacup to her lips, taking a sip. "We can't all be as quick at stitching people up as you are. I think that you're probably the fastest at changing bandages in the entire hospital."

"You're exaggerating, Peggy." Petra said with a sigh. "Sister Beatrice and all the others are much better than I could ever hope to be."

Peggy waved her hand dismissingly at her friend. "And _you're_ just being modest, Petra. I don't think I'll ever be as good as you are. It took me three attempts to stitch up one man after- after we'd removed the piece of wood that had been sticking out of his stomach." She said, her eyes starting to well up at the memory. "They were too loose. The wound just kept reopening. He didn't stop screaming. I- I-"

Petra felt her heart break as she watched Peggy begin to get overwhelmed at the memory. She certainly wasn't the first nurse to break down, and she definitely wouldn't be the last. It was a nasty job, but someone had to do it. Peggy placed her cup back down on the table, sloshing tea all over it as she knocked it slightly. She didn't seem to notice though, as she reached up to wipe her forehead with violently shaking hands. Petra felt her stomach drop as she saw a red smear appear on Peggy's forehead where her hand had been momentarily. She'd yet to wash the blood form her hands.

"Oh, Peggy… here…" She said sadly.

Petra reached into the pocket on her apron, and extracted a white lace handkerchief. She licked it to moisten the fabric before wiping it along Peggy's forehead, ridding her of the blood. She then grabbed her friend's hand in her own and began to wipe down the blood from them as well.

"It won't ever make it go away, I can't do that. But as least washing it away means it won't be a constant reminder." Petra continued softly and placed the handkerchief in her friend's hand, to allow her to finish cleaning herself off.

Peggy took the handkerchief and stared down into her lap. Petra heard her sniff a few times, and noticed her discretely trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. For her sake, Petra pretended she hadn't noticed. She felt a pang of sadness shot through her stomach for Peggy. Petra wouldn't pretend that there hadn't been numerous times that their line of work had become too much for her. At those moments, she gave herself over to the emotions and cried until she felt that there wasn't a drop left within her. Yet most of the time she was able to keep her emotions in check. Peggy had experienced less of the misery that the world has to offer than Petra had, so she was more susceptible to it all.

Petra just wanted to shield Peggy from it all. She didn't want Peggy to have to go through what most already had. No one was immune to it in a war.

"I heard you had applied for a transfer…" Peggy said suddenly and slightly reluctantly. Petra's brow furrowed at the comment.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Iris overheard you talking to Sister Beatrice about it yesterday." Peggy said, not meeting Petra's eye.

She sighed. Iris Donlan was the biggest gossip in the hospital. Petra knew that she was going to have to tell Peggy sooner or later, but she'd just hoped that it would indeed be later rather than sooner. Both of them had come to rely on one another in the short time they'd been acquainted, and she wasn't very keen on the idea of leaving her friend. She put her hand on Peggy's knee and nodded gently.

"I did. It- It's got nothing to do with you though, Peggy. You know I'd not leave you so willingly. I've just…" She began, not too sure where to even start explaining what she had been feeling. "I want- I _need_ to go to the front. I feel like I could be of better help out there than I ever could here…"

Peggy looked up at her with wide, shocked eyes. Petra knew why. To go to the front equated to a death wish. Of all the nurses that usually went out to the front, only sixty per cent managed to live. Many of them were captured and sent to prison camps. Most nurses never even entertained the idea, but Petra hadn't been able to shake the thought for the past few months. Her old hospital being destroyed was the final straw. Of course nurses were needed here in London to look out for those that hadn't been sent off to fight, but Petra couldn't help but feel that if more went out into the battlefields, perhaps there would be less attacks back home. Maybe soldiers that were otherwise dying could be nursed back to health, to go on fighting. Maybe it could stop some of the death.

"I'll go with you!" Peggy said. Petra wasn't sure if it was desperation or determination that tinged her voice, so she just shook her head.

"Don't be silly, Peggy. If you come, who's going to help look after your brothers and sisters? Who'll pay for your mothers heart medication? You're place is right here, and you know that. I, on the other hand… I have nothing left to lose." Petra said, sadness seeping into her tone. She lower her eyes, remembering.

"You have your Father… You have me…" Peggy offered, an invisible plea hanging in the air between them.

"Papa's a strong man, he's made it through one war already, and I have no doubt he'll make it through this one. And you, you're one of the strongest people I know. I _know_ you're going to make it through this war, probably fall in love with a dashing soldier as he returns home triumphantly, and have lots and lots of babies. The girls will all be named Petra, I'd imagine." She smiled, encouraging Peggy to as well. "Besides, there's every chance that my application will be turned down and we'll both live out the rest of the war here, at the mercy of Sister Margery and her daily fingernail inspections."

"How is it possible that you can manage to cheer someone up so easily?" Peggy said with a defeated sigh and an incredulous laugh. "I bet you could even make Adolf Hitler _himself_ smile with that charm of yours."

"That's not a bad idea, Peggy. Maybe that's all he needs: a nice cup of tea and a smile. I bet the war would be over tomorrow if I did that!"

It wasn't much of a joke, but Peggy's face split into a wide smile, and giggles bubbled from her lips. Before either of them knew it, the two girls were clutching at their stomachs, smiling in mirth at the image of a toothy grin showing under the _Führer's_ signature box-moustache. Sometimes, in the bleakest of moments, all you can do is laugh.

"What's the meaning of this?" A sharp tone broke through the dining hall, silencing both the girls' giggles in a heartbeat. Petra and Peggy looked up into the stern face of Sister Beatrice, the head nurse at the hospital. "This is not the time nor the place for such antics, Ladies. Have some respect." She said in a tone so low that it was barely above a whisper. Petra didn't have to strain her ears to hear every one of the perfectly enunciated words, however. Sister Beatrice terrified her.

"Sorry Sister," Peggy said, hanging her head both in shame, and out of protection. Petra followed suit.

"I'd have expected this from you, Williams, but I'd have thought better of you, Nurse Ral." She chastised. Neither of the girls said anything. A brief pause followed. "That's not why I'm here though. Ral, meet me in my office at three o'clock. I have something to discuss with you."

As Sister Beatrice turned on her heel and left the dining hall, Petra and Peggy looked up and stared at one another silently. Both knew what it meant.

Petra's transfer had been approved.

* * *

She observed herself in the fuzzy reflection given off by the base of the bedpan. The pocket watch that was clipped to her left breast read ten minutes to three. Only ten minutes until she was due to be at Sister Beatrice's office, and she felt nerves pooling in the bottom of her stomach, making her feel jittery and unable to keep still. She'd been replacing the bandages that were wrapped around the wounded head of an unconscious man. Her uniform was slightly messy, tarnished with dry blood from that morning, and fresh blood from her most recent endeavor. But otherwise, her appearance was up to the typical standards that a nurse was expected to portray.

She placed the bedpan back on the side table of the wounded man and let out a deep breath, placing her hand on her stomach, trying to settle her nerves. She certainly couldn't show Sister Beatrice how apprehensive she felt. If she was to be sent off to the front, fear was possibly the most undesirable attribute one could have. She straightened the white pill-box shaped hat that sat pinned to her strawberry blonde hair, and made her way out of the ward, down the echoing hallways until she came to a stop outside a green door with frosted glass and 'Sister B. Hughes' printed on it in gold lettering.

A shadowy figure could be seen moving behind the frosted glass, until it came to a stop and became shorter. Sister Beatrice must be at her desk. Petra looked down at her watch. 2:58pm. She hovered, unsure if she would be chastised or praised for being here earlier than the time given. The Ward Sisters were known for upholding punctuality at all costs.

Petra reached up and straightened her cap again, making sure that the small insignia of the Red Cross was pointing directly ahead of her. Her hands attempted to smooth down the creases that had formed in her apron from her days work. It was to no avail. The creases stayed stubbornly in their place. Petra closed her eyes tightly and prayed to the Good Lord that Sister Beatrice wouldn't notice. The last thing she wanted was a weeks worth of night shifts for looking like an 'utter vagrant'.

She raised her hand and knocked on the frosted glass. She heard something shifting behind the door until the familiar voice commanded her to enter. Her hand dropped to the doorknob and she swallowed the lump in her throat before entering the room.

"Ah, Nurse Ral. Have a seat. And shut the door behind you."

Petra did as she was commanded, and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk to her Superior, her sweaty palms clasping each other nervously in her lap. Sister Beatrice was an elderly woman, though Petra thought that she might have appeared older than she actually was. Her slate grey hair was always pulled back into a tight bun, and wrinkles had formed around her face. Though Petra noted that they weren't like the warm wrinkles that decorated her fathers face. His showed years and years of smiling happily, and they only accentuated his joyful features. Beatrice Hughes' however, just made her scarier. They sat around her chin, giving her a look of a permanent frown, and the deep crevices that adorned her forehead and between her brows made her seem like she was constantly displeased with you.

"The Germans have invaded Greece." Sister Beatrice said, though not particularly to Petra. She was glancing over the afternoon newspaper, and Petra noticed an image of tiny ant-sized figures parachuting down onto what she assumed was one of the Greek Isles. Shaking her head, she folded it up and put it away below her desk.

"I assume you know why you're here?" Sister Beatrice said, and pulled out a file from the bottom draw of her desk, extracting some papers from it and laying them in front of her. Petra recognised her application form, as well as a heavily creased and official looking letter, and another sealed envelope.

"It's about my transfer, Ma'am." Petra said quietly.

"Exactly." She pulled one of the forms in front of her and began filling it out. "You're a good Nurse, Petra, probably the best we've got at the moment. I'm not very pleased that you're stay here will be so short, but I do take pleasure in the fact that we were blessed to have you, if only for a few short weeks." She said with a sigh. She signed her name at the bottom of the form with a flourish before picked up the open letter in front of her.

Petra looked up at the Matron and her brow furrowed. She'd never heard her say a nice word about a single nurse in the hospital. She would have been incredibly flattered, if it were not for the fact that she felt like she might throw up all over the desk from nerves. She wondered, now that her wish had come into fruition, whether she'd made the correct decision. Perhaps she should just apologise for the hassle she'd caused even contemplating a transferral to the front, and leave the office before another word could be uttered.

"Before we go any further I must ask," Sister Beatrice said, taking Petra out of her reverie, "You speak German, correct?"

She visibly stiffened at the question. Petra was always unsure of what to answer with when the question of her German ability came up. And she had every reason to be skeptical. It could take something as simple as that for you to be called in front of a tribunal hearing to determine whether or not you were a Nazi spy. Petra was unsure of where this was going, but she had to reply.

"Ma'am… I-" Her eyes searched for a way out of the question. There was none. "I do…" She said finally, and to her surprise, Sister Beatrice nodded confidently.

"Good, you might stand a chance then." She handed Petra the letter in front of her. "This letter arrived this morning, addressed from General Erwin Smith, I'm sure you've heard of him."

Petra nodded, glancing at the letter in front of her. Of course she'd heard of General Erwin Smith. He was always in the news. He was one of the figureheads of the British Army, despite the fact that he was Australian. He'd been adopted by his British parents at the age of twelve and bought back here to live. He had been a decorated war hero in the First World War and was elevated to his current rank at the outbreak of the current war. But what was he doing sending a letter to her hospital? And more importantly, what did it have to do with her?

"He's requested a nurse, who's competent and able and willing to sacrifice everything in the attempt to defeat those that are a part of the Tripartite Pact. He asks that if I have someone who's willing, and someone whose discreetness and efficiency I can vouch for, and then to send them post haste. You can't know where you're going, or what your job will entail. You must simply trust in the General. Do you think you can do that Petra?" She said, looking over the desk at her through half-mooned spectacles.

Petra could only blink in response. Sister Beatrice took that as an affirmative response.

"Then pack your things and report to Kings Cross Station tomorrow at six in the morning. Don't be late." She said, pushing the still-closed envelope across the desk at her, and pulling out her newspaper again to begin reading.

"But…" Petra stammered as she picked up the envelope. "Wh-" Nothing manifested in Petra's mind except utter confusion as she tried to grasp the situation. The vague description given was hardly reassurance of the task ahead of her. How was she expected to trust them if she didn't know what her job was? She wasn't even told where she was heading. "With all due respect, Ma'am… Was there anything… _more?_"

Sister Beatrice looked up at her form her newspaper and sighed, closing it again. She laced her fingers together in front of her mouth and inspected Petra across the desk from her.

"I'm afraid not. All that I have just told you was in the letter that I received, nothing more. I must admit that I was worried it was counterfeit when I first read it. Alas, it's been verified as genuine. It's vague, but all correspondence has to be in a war. That letter," she said, nodding in the direction of the letter Petra clutched in her hand. "Should hopefully shed some more light on the situation, however, it is not meant for my eyes."

Petra looked down at the envelope in her hands. They were shaking.

"If Erwin Smith has requested it, then I can only assume that it's a job of the utmost importance. Don't question it."

Petra nodded, confusion still coursing through her. Nothing seemed to make sense. She stood up and thanked her superior.

"Like I said, you're a good nurse, Ral. One of the best. If, after all of this, you're st-" She stopped, rethinking her words. "If you find yourself needing somewhere to go, don't hesitate to come back here. I'll happily keep your place. You're excused."

Petra walked out of the office in a daze, the letter clutched to her chest desperately. She knew was Sister Beatrice was trying to say.

She would always have a job at St James' Hospital, _if she came back alive…_

* * *

**A/N:** Next chapter, lovelies. This one is just setting up a little precedent on the situation. I wasn't sure how to handle placing the SNK characters in the war. I tossed up between the idea that I have at the moment, and making all the Survey Corps past of the French Resistance, but at the end of the day, I knew very little about the FR, so I'm just making my own thing up. And I know, _I know_, most people don't think of Erwin Smith being Australian, but I always had that as a headcannon. I just always wanted us to be portrayed in SNK, because so many others are. And this is my story, so I'm making him Australian.

In the next chapter we meet Levi and some other very familiar faces of the Survey Corps.

Reviewer's get to have Petra come around and look after them when you're sick, in a cute nurse's outfit.

**Glossary**:  
The Tripartite Pact - The treaty signed by the three main powers of the Axis: Germany, Italy and Japan


	3. The Captain

**The Tug Of War**

**Chapter 2  
The Captain  
**

* * *

He'd heard the nickname given to him, of course, and he detested all of them. The other members of his team laughed at it, clutching at their stomachs in mirth as they poked fun at him. The idea that people would refer to their leader as 'Europe's Greatest Hope' seemed absurd to all of them, though Levi could sense that each were proud that people thought of them as their saviours. It was nice to know that their work was appreciated. Yet the level that their team had been elevated to caused all of them to scratch their heads in wonder. To them, they were just doing their duty; they were no heroes. The real heroes were the ones out in the fields, throwing their lives on the line so willingly. Their small little team were simply doing what they were told, and tried to do all that they could to survive. They weren't so willing to sacrifice themselves for their country as many of the other soldiers were. If they were to die, then who would do their job?

Indeed, their job description was a strange one. None of the soldiers that made up their mishmash team had actively sort out the job. Instead, they all just seemed to have haphazardly stumbled into the situation. Often Erwin Smith, who was the brains behind their clandestine operation, had recruited them. Each soldier came from very different walks of life. They consisted of people from almost every nation, sewn together into a single patchwork of rebellion and disillusionment. Each individual had their own story, their own reasons for fighting, and each was just as integral to the delicate enterprise as the next. Each of them came with very different array of skills and they all fit perfectly together, like well-oiled gears of a very dangerous machine, and Levi was the control centre of it all.

His actual title was Colonel Levi, though they all simply called him 'Captain'. Levi didn't think he was personally all that entitled to such a label but had been elevated rather quickly through the ranks of the military once his unmatched skill was discovered. Though it was a difficult feat, a select few of the men managed to get close enough to him to simply called him Levi. He dared anyone hat wasn't one of them to be impertinent enough to call him by his first name.

Levi was not a difficult man to get along with, in his own, not so humble opinion. He simply had high standards that he expected all those under to him to satisfy; standards that implied that he would accept absolutely nothing less than perfection. In their line of work, a single mistake could mean the downfall of their entire team, and – though he didn't like to think of their work as completely integral to the war effort – through a domino effect, it could also mean the downfall of the Allies. Mostly, his men would just wave off his detached and haughty nature as a result of him being French. Frenchmen, they said, were always arrogant and difficult to please.

That typecast just made his blood boil even more. He may have been forced to flee his native country once it was invaded, and he knew many held a low opinion of it since, but that certainly gave his men no right to mock it. Whenever they did, his eyes would simply narrow in their direction. If they dared to even mention the filthy words 'cheese-eating surrender monkey' within his hearing, he would have them cleaning the toilets for a month straight. He hated all the stereotypes bestowed upon his motherland, even if it were only in jest. If there was just one stereotype about the French that he agreed with, it was that they were patriotic. It was perfectly okay for Levi to criticise his own country, but God forbid anyone else said a bad thing about it, he would have them reduced to the rank of Private quicker than you can say _putain_.

Levi pried his fingers under the piece of wood that was bordered over the window and he felt contempt bubble up inside him as the wood sagged under his fingers, from years of rotting. Placing his foot against the wall for leverage, he heaved himself back until the rotted pieces of wood came away from the window. The room he was in was filthy due to years and years of being locked up and abandoned. Dust had settled on all the surfaces in thick, unwavering layers. The dank stone room smelt of mildew, and the dead bodies of rodents littered the floor. Even before he joined the military and was forced to keep a constant cleanliness about him, Levi had despised any form of dirtiness. This room - this _place_ - made his skin crawl.

Alas, due to the nature of their job, the squadron was forced to move from place to place almost monthly. They could never stay in the same place for long, lest they be found. Their job was to simply be an apparition; to appear out of nowhere, cause havoc and to vanish just as suddenly. It was known that they based themselves in Switzerland and so having a set Head Quarters would have been the equivalent to placing a bright, obnoxious banner across them announcing that they were, in fact, then men that Hitler was looking for. Thus, this situation wasn't all too infrequent. Forced to constantly move from place to place, bunkering down in long-abandoned castles and derelict fortresses in the Swiss countryside meant that Levi had to grow more accustomed to dust and rodent faeces than he'd like to.

He would never get used to it though.

The dark-haired man huffed in annoyance at the room he was expected to stay in. It was disgusting. He often wondered whether their scout's purposely picked the filthiest place that they could find, just to get under his skin. Perhaps it was their way of seeking revenge on him for some menial, plebeian task that he'd assigned to them them for annoying him. If that were the case, then he'd have to admit, they achieved their goal. This particular place was one of the worst yet. Found somewhere in the southwest of the Uri district of Switzerland, the old castle looked as if it were barely managing to stay upright. Its turrets leaned precariously with the wind. Levi wouldn't be all that surprised if they were to wake up tomorrow to find the place had fallen down around them.

He massaged his temples in frustration and looked over at his duffel bag that he'd placed in the corner of the run-down room. Inside were impossible amounts of paperwork that he was going to be forced to fill out before the days end. His only issue was that he certainly wasn't going to be able to start any of it until this hellhole of a room for cleaned up. The words would be illegible if he had to write them on such grimy surfaces.

God be damned if they expected him to sit and work, let alone live, in such filth.

Wiping a small patch of dust away on the old-rotten wood surface that would have to serve as his makeshift desk, Levi scrunched his nose up in disgust and reached into the font pocket of his army-green blazer. He pulled out a small plastic package and placed it down on the table. Levi opened the package and extracted a small amount of tobacco and some lightweight paper and began filling it. He raised it up to eye level to ensure that the tobacco was level and even, inspecting it with his usual military precision that was applied to all aspects of his life.

Many would describe Levi as pedantic, though he argued that it was a virtue that more people should have. Everything that he did in life was exact, measured and perfectly executed. The smallest mistake could cause everything to quickly turn to disaster around him. Something as simple as rolling a cigarette may not seem like a life-changing action, yet Levi calculated the outcome. If he were to add too much tobacco, not only would his cigarette be ruined, putting him in a foul mood, but he would also run out of the precious, rationed substance much quicker than he would like. And very few people enjoyed Levi as it was, let alone when he hadn't had his regular smoke.

Luckily, this attribute would serve him well in the manner that his life had managed to turn out. Much to his dismay, Levi had the weight of the Allies resting on his shoulders, and for the sake of all those relying on him, he couldn't afford to make mistakes. And not only did this ensure that their clandestine missions ran smoothly, but it also meant that he was left with minimum deaths amongst his men. Mostly, any deaths that occurred were simply something completely inevitable, and a source of something incredibly annoying to Levi, who was determined to get through this godforsaken war without dying. If he were going to die, it would be on his own terms. Right now, he was hoping that his death would occur when he was very old, sitting at a café back in Paris, with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of very good Scotch in his other. Any other death would simply be unacceptable.

Gently lowering the filter into one end of the cigarette, Levi began rocking the tobacco that was cradled in its paper back and forth between his fingers to loosen it. He treated it as gently and as preciously as if it were a newborn babe. To Levi, cigarettes were just as treasured. Holding the small bundle in both hands, he expertly began to roll it into a cylindrical shape, his tongue darting out of his mouth to lick the edge of the paper to seal it. Fishing into his pocket, he extracted a silver cigarette lighter, adorned with an engraved image of a shield on the front of it. Two wings overlapped the top of the shield. "The Wings of Freedom" Erwin Smith had said cheerfully as he presented it to Levi on his last birthday. Levi had just rolled his eyes at his superior. The jovial Australian was always doing stupid, sentimental things like that. It was cheesy as fuck, and Levi had told him so, though it didn't cause the stupid smile on the Generals face to falter.

And he would never admit it, but Levi cherished the present.

Levi placed the freshly rolled cigarette in between his lips and flicked the lid off of the lighter, igniting it into life and raising it to the cigarette. As Levi closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet, familiar hit, he leaned back and rested his hip against the table. Perhaps it was just another of the infuriating stereotypes, but there wasn't much that Levi enjoyed in life more than a cigarette, and he'd taken up the habit from a very young age. He was lucky that his status and connections allowed him to get his hands on more tobacco than most. He had Erwin Smith to thank for that. He had a lot to thank Erwin for.

General Erwin Smith was one of the only people in recent history that Levi would think to call a friend. The man had found him at his worst and lent him a hand when he needed compassion the most. He had seen the potential that Levi possessed, and he gave him a chance - something that no one had ever done before in his life. Erwin was his superior, and he respected the man with utmost admiration. Erwin was constantly in infuriatingly high spirits, and Levi felt that he often played up the whole 'Australian Larrikin' persona far too much. That was just him, though. He was able to keep his men in good spirits when he had to, but could also be a deadly commander when need be. No one matched his strategic mind. And he was the reason this whole operation existed.

"Liking your new home?" Came a broad, exuberant accent from the doorway, "I picked this room out for you especially." Speak of the devil.

"_Merde."_ Levi moaned, placing his hand over his eyes in frustration. There was not a moments peace in his life._ "_Not even going to knock. I'm trying to enjoy a smoke in peace, Erwin, so you do you think you could go and patronise someone else until I'm at least finished with it?" Levi said in his signature French accent. He admired the man, but he would seriously contemplate murder for some peace and quiet at the moment.

"No. I'm here on business." Erwin said, waving a hand dismissively at Levi and pushing himself off of the doorway on which he was leaning.

Erwin was a much taller man than Levi was, though that wasn't a particularly difficult feat. He stood a foot taller than Levi, his right-hand man, and his blonde hair and blue eyes made him look ironically quite Aryan. Yet, as harsh as his features were, they very easily softened in affection for his men, whom he cared deeply for. But at the end of the day, Erwin was a soldier and a leader, and though he'd prefer not to, he would be willing to sacrifice the lives of both himself and his men if it meant bringing down the enemy.

"Already? What was the point of moving us here if you were just going to send us out again so quickly?" Levi's eyes narrowed in his direction, as he placed his cigarette back between his lips to suck in another breath of tobacco.

"I've just received a message from Günter, and we don't have long. So I'm afraid you're going to have to postpone your intense cleaning regime for a day." Erwin said with a cheeky grin.

He unbuttoned his blazer and took a seat in the rickety old chair that accompanied the equally rickety table. Levi surveyed him with contempt.

"Why are you even smoking inside anyway? I don't think I've ever seen you do that. Too many ashes to sprinkle everywhere." Erwin observed, wiggling his fingers teasingly in Levi's direction. It was true that Levi would usually reserve such an action for outside, so as to avoid any unnecessary mess. That was beside the point though. If Erwin was here on business, then Levi just wanted him to get the fuck on with it.

"_Va te faire foutre_, Erwin." Levi said, purposely raising the cigarette in front of Erwin's face and tapping it with his index finger, scattering ashes into his commanding officers lap. "This place is filthy enough as it is. It's going to have to be cleaned thoroughly before it's liveable, anyway. And if I want to enjoy a fucking cigarette in this shit hole you call a 'room', then I'll enjoy a fucking cigarette in this shit hole you call a 'room'." He fixed a scowl at Erwin, which only increased when he saw that the man was rather amused with him. "Though you currently seem completely content on ruining it for me."

He exhaled a puff of smoke into Erwin's face.

"My, my. We _are_ hostile today, aren't we, Captain?" Erwin said tutting at him. Levi was desperate to punch the man in his jolly face. Erwin clapped his hands together once and rubbed them together in excitement. "Chin up! I think you'll enjoy what I have to tell you."

Levi sighed, took one last drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out on the stone windowsill beside him. He wasn't in the mood for Erwin's games. He detested having to play them. They were in the middle of a war, for crying out loud! For a man that could be incredibly serious when the moment so calls of it, Erwin could also be such a child.

"What is it?" Levi said, exasperated. Part of him did just want to stay in this wretched place and clean it. It was an itch that he needed to scratch. Part of him didn't _feel_ like rebelling. This happened often, but Levi just had to remind himself that very few people participated in the war because they _wanted_ to. Necessity prevailed in most cases.

Erwin leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at Levi with a rare sparkle in his eye.

"How do you feel about commandeering a train for me tonight?"

* * *

"It's coming from Dijon. Down by the Rhône, and going to make its way into Italy." Erwin debriefed.

In front of him stood two other men, both lounging around the office idly. Levi sat in a chair to Erwin's right, his arm resting against the back of the chair, one leg cross over the other. His blazer was draped over the back of the chair, revealing a simple white singlet tucked into his trousers. A pair of metal dog tags hung around his neck. Peculiarly, unlike most dog tags, Levi's didn't contain his full name, but simply 'Colonel Levi' engraved on one side. The nature of his job meant that his name, amongst other things, had to be kept a secret.

"It's a standard passenger train, which works to our advantage." Levi added. "The front carriage is reserved for SS Officers. Once it reaches the border of Italy, all passengers besides the officers will get off, and then the train will continue onto Yugoslavia. They want to begin work on eradicating the Jewish from there as well now that it's been occupied." He looked at the two men sitting in the office with them, both seemed uneasy at the news.

Each mission that his team went on was always structured the same. One of their members, Günter Shultz had infiltrated the SS and worked as their spy. Every chance he got, he would send pieces of information that he believed would be useful to their cause. Once they had the information in their hands, they would spring into action. They'd never utilise all of their men at once, lest the operation turn sour. It always consisted of Levi, two of his higher-ranked soldiers, and a handful of lower subordinates. The also worked to their advantage because the smaller the team was, the easier it was to manoeuver. And luckily for them, they had General Erwin on their side. He was a master strategist.

Levi stood up and walked over to a desk, where a large map of France was spread across it. He felt a pang of nostalgia shoot through him.

"We'll board here." Levi said, pointing down to a spot on the map of France, towards the south. "_À Lyon_"

"So what's the plan? Bust in there and kill 'em all?" Said the older of the two men eagerly. He had sandy blonde hair, shaved close to his head at the sides and back. Levi rolled his eyes at his comment.

"_No_, Oluo. Bloody hell, are all Norwegians as foolhardy as you?" Erwin said incredulously.

Oluo Bossard was, without doubt, one of the most skilled soldiers in the team. He'd been raised in a family of military men, and while he'd proven to be a very competent fighter, he was also insufferably sure of himself, and not always with reason. His skill had gone to his head. He tended to rush into things, which had got him and the rest of the team into sticky situations on more than one occasion. He'd been a high-ranking officer within the Norwegian army before Germany had occupied it a year earlier. He'd refused to fight in Hitler's army. The arrival of up to six thousand SS troops was the final straw for him. He'd turned his own gun on his commanding officer, killing him, and fled the country. For six months he'd helped smuggle people across borders to safety, that was when Erwin found him and had proposed that he join his own squad. He had never looked back.

"There will be _civilians_ on the train, you idiot. Under no circumstances are you to just 'bust in there and kill 'em all'" Erwin continued, fixing a stare on Oluo until he backed down. "If we do that, not only will be putting their lives at risk, but suspicion and alarm will be raised. We want to take this train, and we don't want them to realise until it doesn't turn up in Italy, to avoid any retaliation. We don't want anyone to notice you. As always you've got to be invisible. _Is that clear?"_

Oluo lowered his head under the taller mans gaze in consent.

"Yes, _slingrefitte._" Oluo said under his breath, with a slight hint of venom in his last word. Levi didn't bat an eyelid as he watched Erwin smack Oluo on the upside of his head. He knew for a fact that Erwin didn't speak Norwegian, but they all certainly knew that the name had been meant as an insult.

The team itself was made up of so many people from so many different countries that communication was sometimes difficult. The newer recruits often struggled with broken snippets of languages, ranging form Romance, to Baltic to Germanic. Many quickly learnt to speak English, as it was the most commonly spoken amongst them, but through the rag-tag bunch of nationalities each man picked up on bits and pieces from another's native language. Mostly swear words and derogatory comments.

"Mike," Erwin said, rounding on the other, taller, man, "do you have the papers?"

Mike nodded, stepped forward, and handed Erwin the papers he was holding in his hand, a small smirk on his face. Mike Zacharius' skill level was also known to be well above that of the ordinary soldier, second only to Levi himself. Aside from Erwin, Mike was one of the few people that Levi would consider his friend. The two had grown close between their short time together and there was hardly a time that the Greek man wasn't present on a mission with Levi. Only when he was not physically able to, did he not participate.

Erwin inspected the documents with an approving nod. A grin spread across his face as he scrutinized each one. He handed them to Levi to do the same. Levi, in turn, looked over them as well. However, no reaction came across his usual impassive face. The papers were impeccable, as was expected of Mike's standards. There wasn't a thing that he could criticize about them.

"As usual, we're going in with false identification. False names and false nationalities. I don't care what your back-story is, but make it believable. Keep these papers on you at all times" Levi said, raising the documents in the air. "And do as little as you can to draw suspicion to yourself." His gaze stopped deliberately on Oluo.

Because aside from being a skilled soldier, Mike, the Greek, was deadly with a pen. And as such, he was an integral part of their organisation. Without his skills in forgery, they wouldn't be able to achieve what they did. Every mission the men took on false identities, so as to not draw suspicion to themselves. In an environment where simply hesitating to produce your identification papers when ordered to could lead to your arrest, they made sure that they always kept at least one false document on them at all times. There was also the very real yet very undesirable case they could be captured. Giving away their real names would be suicide for all of them.

"For the sake of this mission, we'll need to be French, so brush up on your language skills, _salauds_. I'll not have those atrocious accents you had last time." Levi's glower increased, accusingly.

The last mission they'd gone on together into France had almost destroyed them. They'd been trying to break into a hotel filled with Nazi Officials to steal something that the British Army simply called the _Enigma Machine_. None were entirely sure what it was nor what it was used for, but simply that England needed to get their hands on one. That was all the information that they needed. Dressed as Bell Boys, they'd infiltrated the Hotel's Service Staff. Levi was to break into one of the rooms while Mike and Oluo kept watch, distracting anyone who attempted to come near. Instead, they'd blown their cover simply by opening their mouths. No amount of acting could mask Mike's thick Greek accent, and Oluo's French was just simply atrocious, no matter how convincing his acting was.

It was only once Levi came to their aid that they'd managed to escape with both the Enigma Machine and their lives.

Just barely.

"I'm _Benoît Duvel_, a math teacher on his way back home to Marsailles." Levi said, reading the first of the forged document before tossing it onto the desk. "Mike, you're _Hugo Leclerc_, a carpenter from Nancy, going to work on the new hospital being build there." He tossed the second of the false papers to Mike, who swiftly caught it. "And Oluo…" He finished, rounding on him.

At the look on Erwin and Mike's devious face, Levi couldn't even stop himself from offering up a rare smile. He tossed the paper to Oluo, who caught it, unfolded and read it. Mike and Erwin began laughing haughtily at the expression that came across his face. Levi's smirk just intensified.

"Fuck _no_!" Oluo yelled, incredulously. "_Madeleine Roussel?! _You want me to pretend to be a _woman_?" His mouth hung open as he looked at his two superiors.

Mike slapped him on the back encouragingly, a hearty laugh still playing on his lips. "Don't worry, _malaka_. You're so sure of yourself and you're sexuality, I'm sure you'll have no problem with this. Consider it your greatest role yet." He said, his hand sweeping dramatically in front of him.

Oluo folded his arms across his chest and shook his head vehemently in refusal. Levi reached behind his desk and pulled out a wad of fabric. He held it up to reveal a particularly ugly dress in a mint green colour, adorned with garish bows. He bundled it up again and tossed it at Oluo's chest.

"This is for you. Hanji sends her best regards." He said, his smirk not leaving his face, as Oluo just scowled and swore Zoë Hanji's name.

Anyone watching the banter between the four men would assume that they were incredibly close friends that went back many years, and cared deeply for one another. While it was partly true, Levi's natural nature was to not get attached to people. His past had taught him that attachment simply lead to heartbreak and disappointment, neither of which he was particularly fond of. They were his team members, his subordinates. He cared for them, but at the end of the day, when you're in a war, there's nothing special about a human life. Levi had learnt that the hard way. For this reason, he always seemed quite despondent, even around those he was closest to. His aloofness was just one of the many barriers he'd put up to protect himself with.

"Don't forget this:" Erwin added, before tossing a small gold tube of red lipstick in Oluo's direction. Erwin had to duck as it was instantly pelted back at his head. He chuckled, before clearing his throat and standing up straighter. "Anyway, back on track. Your mission is to board the train – at different stations starting from Lyon – and draw no attention to yourselves. Oluo, you're to make your way up to the conductors carriage and, well, just put the driver to sleep for a while."

"Does that mean I-" Oluo started

"You do _not_ kill him, Oluo" Levi cut off, exasperated. "Just use kerosene, and make sure no one sees you doing it. We'll then continue dropping off passengers until the end of the line, until only the SS officers are left. At that point, it will due to cross the border into Italy. The schedule says that that's meant to be at approximately eleven o'clock tonight."

Levi placed his hands behind his back and began pacing, as he was in the habit of doing when trying to sort things out within his own mind.

"We'll then stop the train and lock all the soldiers in. _Hopefully _it goes smoothly. That's when Erwin and his troops will move in and take them off our hands. We'll have exactly two hours to pull it off." Levi said, coming to a stop in front of Oluo "_That's_ why we need a woman. Women are much less suspecting." He stared at him with his usual bored expression, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, but why do _I_ have to do it? I hardly have a feminine body, unlike you, Captain. You'd be a better woman than I would." Oluo said bitterly, to which Levi raised his eyebrow, daring him to continue. He did. "You're all petit and stuff."

Levi felt fatigue and exhaustion wash over him at that moment. He did not have the time for this. It was already nearing midday and if they were to make it across the border into France in time to catch the correct train, they were going to have act quickly. Levi simply wanted to get the job done and come home and relax. He was already feeling weary from travelling to their new residence. Levi put his hand out towards Oluo.

"Fine. If you're so dense that you're completely incapable of following commands, I'll just do it, and you can just go and find yourself a new squadron to join." He said, his voice no louder than a murmur. He had no intention whatsoever of actually playing the decoy woman; that job was reserved for Oluo, for a reason. Oluo had to continue driving the train, and Mike and he's fighting skills would be needed to keep the SS officers at bay. But he knew that Oluo's pride would be too much then let his captain do the dirty job, he knew he would give in. His patience was wearing incredibly thin.

"There'll be none of that, Levi." Erwin said, placing a restraining hand on Levi's shoulder. "Oluo will do it. There's no need to get intimidating, Little Toulouse-Lautrec."

Levi shot daggers at Erwin. It was hard to miss the fact that Levi was significantly shorter than the rest of the men in the room, yet he dared a single man to make light of it. He would not hesitate to cut out their tongue, just to ensure that they never mentioned it again. If it were any man other than Erwin, Levi would have given them a swift punch to their jaw.

"Henri Toulouse-Lautrec was an actual dwarf, _conasse_." Levi said, venomously. "And a raging alcoholic."

"Are you sure that you're not his grandson, Levi? The similarities are _uncanny_." Mike said with a smile.

A vain pulsed in Levi's temple as the men around him roared with laughter. If they weren't careful, they'd mess up this mission; and if Levi wasn't careful, he'd snap and sell all of them out to the _Führer_ and keep the reward money for himself.

* * *

**_A/N: _**So in this chapter you really just learn how to swear in a few different languages. I'm sorry if you find this chapter a little bit dull, but I have a lot in store for Levi and his past, so for the time being Levi-centric chapters are going to be vague. Also, I only speak French, English and Japanese, so if I'm using any other languages incorrectly, please let me know. +5 points if you get the Simpsons reference, btw

Fun fact: Oluo's back-story is actually based off of the true story of one of my workmate's grandpa.

I also love writing Oluo. I've made him Norwegian because 'Oluo' kind of sounds like 'Oslo', and that's justification enough for me. And when I wrote about their last mission and the bad accents, all I could visualise in my mind was that scene from Inglorious Basterds, and Oluo standing there saying _'GORLAMI'_, with Levi dressed as Diane Kruger, rolling his eyes.

**_Glossary:  
_**_Putain_ – Whore (French) – their equivalent of 'fuck'.  
_Merde_ – Shit (French)  
_Va te faire foutre_ – Go fuck yourself/Fuck you/Fuck off (French)  
_À Lyon_ – At Lyon (French)  
_Slingrefitte_ – wobblepussy (Norwegian) – I don't speak Norwegian, but I googled Norwegian swear words, and holy crap the list I found was hilarious. This one made me laugh quite a bit. I don't even care if it's not correct.  
_Salauds_ – Bastards (French)  
Enigma Machine – Machine used by Germans to write the Enigma Code.  
_Malaka - _Wanker (Greek)  
_Conasse_ – Ass (French)  
The SS (officers) – _Schutzstaffel_ (German)– Military organization under Heinrich Himmler


End file.
